Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [28]
I was worrying about all this when Katie came up to me before school. It’s like she has mental telepathy or something.
“I’ve been thinking over what you said a few weeks back, out by the bleachers,” she goes, all serious.
“Katie, please. I didn’t mean it.”
“No. You’re right. I’ve been so wrapped up in things I’ve ignored you. I’m sorry.”
I don’t know what to say, so I nod.
“Anyway,” she continues, “I have to get some new tops and I wondered if maybe you want to go shopping with me.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Some day after school.”
I hesitate. What would I say to Jason? If I don’t see him every day, he gets in one of his moods. Then I remember he has a dentist appointment tomorrow. “What about tomorrow afternoon?”
“I have choir practice.”
“Oh, right.”
I guess I look disappointed, because Katie takes a deep breath. “Okay. Tomorrow. Missing one practice won’t hurt.”
I’m amazed. For Katie, missing choir is almost worse than murder. I’m even more amazed next day when Ashley lays on this guilt trip and Katie says, “Look, Ashley, God’s hardly going to strike me dead or anything.”
Our trip starts out great: we’re playing spy up and down the mall, laughing at all the sales clerks who go on Red Alert when they see a teenager come near their store. We put on accents, pretending to be rich people. It’s pretty stupid, but it gives us the giggles all the same.
The fun stops when we start trying on tops. Lots of girls are embarrassed about getting undressed—after gym, some even change with a towel wrapped around them—but me and Katie have seen each other naked so many times we don’t care. So anyway, we’re squashed together in this tiny changeroom tossing stuff on and off when all of a sudden Katie goes, “Oh my god! What’s that on your back?”
I get really scared. I imagine I have this malignant growth or something. But when I look in the mirror, all I see is a bruise. It’s not hurting. I’d even forgotten I had it.
“Oh, that,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s huge. How did you get it?”
“Who knows?”
Katie goes really quiet. “It was Jason, wasn’t it?”
“No! Look, just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean he’s a wife beater or anything.”
“How did it happen, then? It’s all big and purple and brown. Don’t tell me you can’t remember.”
“Okay, if it makes you happier, I fell backwards and hit my back on a doorknob.”
“Nobody falls backwards unless they’re pushed.”
“Quit with the social worker crap.”
“I’ll quit when you tell me who pushed you.”
“It wasn’t a push. Anyway, it was my fault. I was being mouthy and Jason just accidentally sort of bumped into me.”
“Oh my god! What if you’d hit your spine? What if you’d broken your back?”
“Well, I didn’t. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s only been once, anyway, and if you tell anyone—”
“What about those marks on your arms?”
“No big deal.”
“Is this why you haven’t been coming to gym?”
She’s got me. I don’t like getting hit, even if it’s only been a couple of times and even if it’s to teach me a lesson, like Jason says. But even worse than getting hit is the idea that other people might find out about it. They wouldn’t understand. So I’ve been hiding my bruises with long-sleeved sweaters and jeans, which I’ve started to wear anyhow, on account of Jason doesn’t like other guys staring at me. And I’ve also stopped going to gym. (Apparently Ms. Patrick thinks cramps can go on forever. Personal experience, no doubt.)
“I just bruise easy,” I shrug.
“You do not. Leslie, you’ve got to stop going out with him.”
I grab her by the elbows. “Mind your own business. Stuff between me and Jason is private. Okay?”
“You’re getting beat up.”
“Shut up!” I give her my hardest, hardest look. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be the big Christian? Whatever happened to forgive and forget?”
“This is different.”
“It is not. Now swear you’ll never blab.” Her eyes are big and pleading,